Astor Place Vintage: A Novel (43 page)

The hot water was starting to make me feel faint. I got out and wrapped myself in a towel. While combing my hair, I stared in the mirror. My pale complexion had a sallow tinge, with dark circles under bloodshot eyes. A pimple was emerging under my left nostril. I barely had the strength to run the comb through my hair, and my stomach was aching for nourishment. I pulled on an oversize T-shirt and stood in front of the refrigerator. Even though I was starving, nothing appealed to me, so I stood by the counter eating a few spoonfuls of almond butter and drank down a glass of apple juice. Then I called down to the store. Bettina picked up right away. “Astor Place Vintage.”

“Hi, it’s me. How’s it going?”

“Pretty slow. I think the heat is keeping people away.”

“Okay, then I might be another hour.” Or two. I wanted to look in that hatbox before I went downstairs.

“That’s fine.”

The journal could wait. I wanted to put off saying good-bye to Olive.

“I mean, really,” Bettina said, “if you need the whole afternoon, whatever . . .”

Once she said that, I realized how great it would be to unwind and relax, and there was no reason in the world to stress about it. “You know what? I’ll plan on coming in around five or six, but give me a call if anything changes.”

Thank god for Bettina. If I weren’t going out of business, it would’ve been time to give her a raise.

I went straight to the hatbox and pulled out the top pile of junk
mail and menus. They went straight to my garbage pail. I set aside the manila envelope. Underneath that, I found a stack of worthless white cotton handkerchiefs yellowed with age, a neatly folded linen tablecloth with a large stain, and under that, a cigar box. On the top of the box, a beautiful woman with long dark hair whispered into the ear of another.

My hand trembled as I lifted the lid, releasing the scent of tobacco, which had miraculously lingered after all those years. The remains of Olive’s detested sewing supplies brought a smile to my face. I found a book of needles, a wad of lace, wooden spools of thread, and a set of French ivory buttons that I set aside for Molly. A hodgepodge of other stuff was in there, too: a dirty, possibly fossilized eraser, a pin in the shape of a yellow lollipop, and a small red velvet box that promised to hold something more valuable than the junk it had been squirreled away with.

Indeed, inside the box was a piece of gold jewelry. A heart locket, to be exact, with a star engraved on the front. Olive’s locket. I opened it up, expecting to see the picture of her mother with the sad face fringed by sausage bangs. Instead, I found pictures of two young women, one on either side. They wore their bangs swept up in the pompadour style. The more beautiful one with dark hair—that had to be Angelina. And the other one, radiating confidence, would be Olive. They both smiled.

“Hello,” I said.

Jane must’ve been pretty close to Olive if she kept her picture in there along with her own mother’s. Olive must’ve been like an aunt to her. Or maybe it was more than that. After all, Jane had Olive’s trunk, too. Did Angelina die in childbirth? Leave Jane to be raised by Olive? I pushed away that line of thought and closed the heart. Next time Rob was in town, I’d make sure to give it to him. For now I’d keep it safe by wearing it around my neck.

The idea of curling up in bed for a nap tempted me. But the risk was too high that I’d sleep away the rest of the afternoon, and
then I’d never get to sleep that night. I set myself up on the couch to mend a forties dress with rips under both sleeves. I brought the boom box to the couch so I could have some music while mending. Michael Jackson would help keep me awake. A cup of tea sounded like a good idea, too.

I put water on to boil. Then I sat down with my sewing box and turned on the tape.

So now I’d like you to go to that place where you feel strong and secure.

Darn. I forgot Dr. Markoff was in there.

The place of wisdom. The department store.

The
Thriller
cassette was over on my nightstand.

Wandering up and down the aisles, looking at dresses . . . shoes . . . handbags. Everything you could ever want.

At that moment, the effort of crossing the room to get it seemed equal to walking from the Battery to the Bronx.

It’s a wonderful place, isn’t it? So many tempting things, but also wisdom.

Dr. Markoff’s spiel was about to end, anyway. I’d get Michael when I made my tea. I threaded the needle; tried to, that is. My groggy eyes wouldn’t focus.

Somewhere in Altman’s, there’s a department of wisdom where you can find everything you need to know.

Maybe it would be okay to put my head down for a second, until the water came to a boil.

When you visit this place, you’ll achieve a sense of calm that will allow you to fall into a deep, restful sleep.

Except now my stomach was cramping in earnest. Maybe my period was going to make its appearance. I began to feel hot again, so I sat up and pulled off my T-shirt. But the sofa upholstery was too scratchy for my naked body, so I made the journey across the room and collapsed on my bed. Maybe this wasn’t my period but a hot flash. Could you get them both at the same time? That
wouldn’t be fair, though I bet Aunt Ida would defend the double insult as another proviso of Eve’s curse.

Suddenly, a man wearing a black suit and bowler burst into the room. “Sorry, I’m late. Got here fast as I could.”

“Hey!” Embarrassed to be caught naked on my bed in the middle of the day, I scrambled to get under my sheet. “You can’t just come in here.” Maybe this was a dream.

“Please spread your legs. I need to examine you.”

Definitely a dream. “Look, mister, if you don’t get out of here, I’m waking up.”

“You’re the one who sent for me, miss. Your water broke.”

“Sorry, you’ve got the wrong person.”

“I don’t think so.” He gestured to the floor next to the bed. I leaned over. A puddle of water.

“I’m not even pregnant. I took the test. Unless,” I said with a smirk, “I’m one of the lucky one percent.”

He wasn’t smiling. “You’re afraid,” he said, putting on a pair of rubber gloves, “and it’s perfectly natural. But there’s no use putting it off. You can’t avoid the pain.”

“No, you don’t understand—”

“Just calm down and we’ll get this baby out. Forceps won’t do the job. We’ll have to operate.” He removed a knife from his satchel. It was huge, more like a sword or a machete.

“You’re not using that on me.”

“We have no choice. Now stop making this difficult. We’re running out of time. Don’t you want this baby?”

I looked down at my stomach. It was huge. Massive. My god, he was right. I
was
going to have a baby. My very own baby! A rush of elation washed over me. It wasn’t too late!

The doctor checked the edge of the knife with his thumb. “Shall we begin? I want you to lie on your back, stare at the ceiling, and let yourself breathe. By the time I count to zero, you’ll be asleep.”

“But I’m already asleep.”

“Ten, nine, eight . . .”

“It’s not going to work.”

He raised the knife. “Seven, six, five . . .”

I curled up my legs. “Don’t do it! Please! I’m begging you!”

“Four, three, two . . .”

“Stop counting! Don’t you see? I’m wide awake!”

“One!”

Just as he began to swing the knife down, I sprang from the bed with the sheet wrapped around me and ran for the door. Grabbing the handle, I turned the knob, but the deadbolt was locked. The doctor, walking toward me, peeled off his handlebar mustache and removed his bowler, revealing that he was a woman! Pretty and blond—she wasn’t smiling. I knew it. Jeff’s wife. She’d come to kill me.

“It’s over,” I yelled, backing up against the wall as she drew nearer. “I swear to god, it’s over!”

Standing right in front of me, she raised the knife—except the knife had turned into a gun. She was going to shoot me point-blank, like Harry Thaw shot Stanford White! As the gun went off, I screamed at the top of my lungs. My scream turned into the whistle of the teakettle. I bolted upright on the bed.

Still naked, I looked around for my T-shirt. Jesus. What a nightmare.

I put the T-shirt back on, got up, and turned off the burner. As the whistle faded, I heard her. That woman moaning. Not again! It sounded like she was right outside my apartment. I unlocked the door and looked into the hall. Nobody. Maybe she was on the next floor up. I probably should’ve put on more clothes, but curiosity drove me to the stairs. When I reached the next floor, there was still no woman, but the moaning got louder. I kept going. The higher I went, the louder she got.

By the time I reached the fifth floor, the woman sounded like she was in pure agony. My heart raced, and I had to catch my
breath before climbing the final staircase that led to the roof. Approaching the door, I kept my eye on the rusty gold knob. I grasped it and turned. The door swung open. The glare of the sun stung my eyes.

Before going any farther, I propped the door open with a brick. Taking a few steps, I regretted my lack of shoes; the gravelly surface cut into the bare soles of my feet. I didn’t see anyone. The sound of a jackhammer drifted up from the street. The moaning was gone. I went farther, and then a little farther, and saw no one. The view sure was great, though, overlooking an expanse of neighboring rooftops and the Williamsburg Bridge off in the distance. I should’ve been making use of the roof all summer to sunbathe.

I turned to go back inside, stepping gingerly on the gravel. I’d come up here for nothing, like a fool, and now the moaning would continue to haunt me. At the doorway, I knelt to remove the brick. That was when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. Someone was lying on a mattress over by the edge.

I straightened up and crept closer. It was a woman; she had one long braid of chestnut-brown hair. Her eyes were closed. Dead? No, her chest rose and fell with each breath. It had to be Olive, sleeping on the roof as she’d described in that journal entry. She looked peaceful and serene, not at all like someone who’d been moaning. Why was she sleeping up here all by herself?

A hot gust of wind blew against my bare legs. Something in my mind clicked. Jane Kelly once lived in my apartment. I bet she was born there, too. Maybe that was what I’d been hearing. Moans of pain. The pain of childbirth.

But where was Angelina? Was she giving birth now? A hundred years ago? Down in my apartment, all alone? Maybe the moans had lured me up here to get Olive.

I knelt and spoke with calm urgency so I wouldn’t scare her. “Olive?” She didn’t move. “Olive, you have to wake up.” She didn’t respond. “It’s time,” I said, but she didn’t open her eyes or even
move. I spoke more loudly. “Angelina needs you. She’s giving birth.” Still no reaction. I gave up on calm. “Olive! You’ve got to get downstairs!” I yelled. “Now! Right now! Now!”

Just as Olive’s eyes finally opened, the sound of my own screams woke me up.

I was standing on the roof of my building. Alone. In my T-shirt.

What the hell? Jesus Christ. Something very strange was going on. And I bet it was Dr. Markoff’s fault.

I flew down the stairs, intending to get right on the phone and give that man a piece of my mind. When I reached my floor, I charged through the open door of my apartment and came to a dead stop.

The room was completely empty: no furniture, no books, no mess. All my stuff gone. Stolen? The walls . . . I turned in every direction, gaping with disbelief. All four walls were covered with wallpaper. Purple roses climbing green trellises. I went to press my hand against the flat, cool surface. Angelina’s wallpaper had been there all the time, surrounding me without my knowing it. And that meant Jane Kelly probably was born in this very room.

A whistling sound made me turn around. My water had to be boiling.

I opened my eyes. I was lying on the couch. One of my arms hung over the side, and my palm was flat on the wood floor. I must’ve dozed off during the end of Dr. Markoff’s tape. But hadn’t I moved to the bed? No, that was in the dream. The man in the bowler hat, too. And the gun. Sitting up, I saw that all my belongings were in their usual locations, along with the usual mess. Alas, no wallpaper. I didn’t go up to the roof, either. All of it had been a dream. Damn.

The hiss of the kettle grew louder. I got off the couch to turn it off. Something wet, like a very long teardrop, trickled down my thigh. Dots of blood splattered on the floor. Finally. My period had arrived.

THE SUN’S GLARE
pried my eyes open. I turned onto my stomach. Just a little more sleep. People around me woke up with loud yawns and muttered curses. A child cried. Somebody stepped on my braid and didn’t bother to apologize. The roof door slammed shut every so often as someone left to start the day. I must’ve dozed off again, because I was having a strange dream about a woman yelling at me to wake up. When I opened my eyes no one was there, just the rhythmic sound of a jackhammer on the street.

I sat up and realized I was by myself on the roof. Everyone else had awakened and gone. Angelina, too, and she’d taken her bedding. What time was it? I quickly stood up and put my wrapper over the housedress I slept in on the roof. Undoubtedly, I’d be late for work. Ever since my vacation ended three weeks ago, I’d been working late almost every night, just as Miss Cohen had promised. I bundled up my mattress and sped down the stairs. She would simply have to understand.